Wayward Sons
by Zellatron
Summary: "As he lay in bed during those moments before sleep overtook him, he created a Merle that was just like John Wayne."
1. Into this house we're born

**1. **I don't own _The Walking Dead _and definitely don't own the Dixon brothers. This fanfiction is written solely for profit-free entertainment.  
><strong>2. <strong>If you read please review, I'd love to know what people think.  
><strong>3. <strong>This fanfic is rated M for racism, violence and questionable parenting. There will be explicit language and adult themes in later chapters, so reader discretion is advised.  
><strong>4. <strong>This is basically my attempt at an insight into Daryl's childhood and Merle's role in it - essentially why it was Daryl turned out like he did and also what made Merle, Merle.  
><strong>5. <strong>Revised on 20/2/2012.

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><p><strong>Wayward Sons<strong>

[1.0_/Into this house we're born, into this world we're thrown.*_]

1986

He came home to find a plywood wall, newly erected, dividing his already small bedroom in two. His bed had been shoved into a foreign corner, his toys and the contents of his missing pine wardrobe piled high on the mattress. A hammer lay unsupervised on the worn carpet surrounded by forgotten nails and a pot of unopened white paint. With the wall where it was he only had half a window and there was a gap one inch wide between where the wall ended and the single pane glass began. There was barely any room to move, he could make it from the doorway to his bed in four strides and if he stretched out his arms as wide as they would go he would almost be able to touch the external wall and the one that had been put up whilst he was at school. Peering into the new little room he found nothing more than a low camping bed, a wicker laundry basket and a chest of drawers; there wasn't space for anything else.

Daryl didn't understand why any of it was there but he didn't question the unexpected changes to his bedroom. Instead he tidied his school bag away behind the door and shucked off his too big denim jacket and second hand sneakers. Ma was baking a cake and he wondered whose birthday it was because she only ever baked cakes on special days like birthdays. The smell made his stomach growl. Lunch had been forfeited when Jimmy Tate had decided he preferred Daryl's peanut butter sandwiches to his own tuna on rye, the fourth time he had done so in two weeks, and Daryl got the feeling that it was going to become a regular event. Jimmy was bigger than Daryl by half a foot despite their matching ages, and not only was he taller he could punch harder too.

Ma bustled passed his room oblivious to her youngest son standing where he was. She was whistling, her hair tightly rolled in curlers and she was wearing the fire engine red lipstick that was normally saved for nights out with Uncle Kenny. Daryl trailed after her, his socks sliding and catching on the uneven linoleum tiles. For the first time he noticed the multi-coloured streamers hanging from the bodged cornicing, drooping in wonky loops that were precariously tacked into position with brass pins. The open plan kitchen and family room of the Fleetwood singlewide had been hastily cleaned up and decorated. There was an unopened packet of balloons on the counter sat on top of a neatly folded banner that was alien to him, not the crinkled well-used _Happy Birthday_ one Ma had been using since before he was born. He poked at the shiny paper and made out the first two letters to be 'W' and 'E'. He frowned, thinking hard on what could be happening for so many unexpected changes that afternoon. Ma noticed him then.

"Hey there, baby boy. Didja have a good day at school?" She pressed a kiss into his wild hair and briefly hugged him against her side. Beneath the heavy perfume she wore, the one that made him sneeze, Daryl could smell sherry and cigarettes.

"It was okay." He pinched his nose and willed away the sneeze that threatened to erupt.

"Didja learn anything good?"

"Not really."

She smiled the same whimsical, indulgent smile she always wore when talking to him. As if she were half-pretending to listen, finding something in her head more interesting than what it was he had to say. Ma moved away and pulled the cake from the oven, resting it on a cooling rack next to the sink.

"Who's that for?" Daryl asked, staring at the warm sponge unable to rein back his curiosity.

Ma hesitated for the shortest of moments before spinning around towards him and crouching down at his height, her hands tightly gripping his thin shoulders. She was grinning widely, and not for the first time Daryl noticed the deep and premature wrinkles carved into her face that aged her ten years. She was wearing more make up than ever, intent on bringing some colour into her wan complexion. It left her looking strange to him, almost clownish. The rouge emphasised her hollow cheeks and sharp features whilst the foundation powder turned her freckles invisible. The blue eye shadow and thick mascara transformed her eyelashes into the long legs of an exotic turquoise spider and she fluttered them coquettishly.

The fear he'd had at being told off for interfering in business that didn't concern him evaporated at her queer behaviour.

"Oh baby, have I got the best surprise for you!" She did a little on-the-spot dance more suited to a girl of his age than a woman of forty-six. Her excitement was contagious. Daryl felt anticipation bloom inside of him. "Guess who's coming home?"

"Who?"

"You've gotta guess, Daryl! Ain't no fun if I tell you!"

He paused and bit his lip. His Pa wasn't due home until after Thanksgiving, a good eight months off, and Uncle Kenny hadn't been away long enough to warrant any kind of party on his return. Ma was antsy, desperate for him to give her the right answer. She gave up waiting for him to catch on, blurting out the answer so fast it took a minute or two for what she said to sink in.

"Merle of course! Your brother's coming home today!"

Merle. Daryl couldn't remember him beyond the framed photographs that littered the trailer and the regular mentions made by Ma. The anticipation and excitement he felt increased. Whilst he didn't know the first thing about his brother beyond that Merle had joined the Marines when Daryl was nothing more than a toddler, he knew that Ma worshipped the earth her first child walked on. Why exactly, he couldn't say, but when she talked about Merle her eyes lit up in a way that they never did otherwise. Ma straightened and busied herself with wiping down the counter tops.

"Y'all be sharing your room now, so be on your best behaviour when your brother's about. That wall Mister Miller put up don't mean you can slack off. No more messiness, no more bad dreams. Y'hear me, Daryl?"

He nodded obediently, watching as she swept up flour and tidied the bills she wouldn't bother to open until Uncle Kenny did the household accounts.

"Tell me you promise."

"I promise, Ma."

"Good boy," she dumped the blue check dishcloth and straightened out her apron. "Now help me blow up these balloons, we'll tie 'em up outside on the porch railings. He won't get here 'til six-thirty so we've got plenty of time. And I want you to put your best shirt on, so he thinks he's got a smart boy for a brother."

They spent the next hour blowing up balloons with a hand pump Ma found under the kitchen sink, writing "welcome home Merle" on the squeaking rubber with a permanent marker bought especially for the occasion. They ate a cold dinner, Ma pushing her food about the plate in distraction telling Daryl stories of when Merle was a little boy, and when they were finished he washed his face and changed into his blue cotton shirt; fumbling with the buttons as he watched his Captain America alarm clock count down the time remaining before Merle's arrival. In her room, Ma hummed as she picked out a dress, happier than she had been in a while.

It was like Christmas, only better.

...

Dandelions clustered around the base of the porch steps, their yellow florets slowly ripening. Blowing on them was for babies so instead Daryl kicked and flicked them when the pappi turned silver and watched the fruits disperse in explosive clouds. But not that night, that night he sat quietly, digging the toes of his sneakers into the bare earth turning the grimy white leather a pale red. There were shallow canyons shaped like crescent moons from where he dragged his toes and heels across the compacted ground, following the path of his feet with a stick to make them deeper.

It was long past six-thirty and Merle still hadn't shown up. Ma was spitting feathers and working her way though the rest of the sherry. Daryl had retreated outside to save himself from getting shouted at again. At least this time she hadn't thrown anything at him, he counted his blessings that she had been too busy ripping down the streamers to do anything more than yell.

The sky was dusky orange, the day coming to a quick end. The air was beginning to cool but he didn't move to go inside. He could hear old Patti Royce's lapdogs barking further down the row, and that the new folks in the trailer opposite were watching a movie. Birds chirruped in the tree tops, settling down for the night, and the sphere-topped street lamp situated next to his family home flickered to life.

Daryl watched the road. It meandered through the trailer park like a black river, smooth and solid onyx that glistened and burned shoeless feet when the sun baked it and turned to slippery ice in winter storms. There was nothing on it other than a group of children trailing circles on their bicycles and scooters, sometimes whizzing past his home without a thought to look in his direction. The road system ran one-way and counter-clockwise, Daryl would see a truck or a taxi coming from where he sat. When Merle arrived he'd be able to shout to Ma, although in reality it was Merle who would be in need of forewarning, not her. Daryl sat on the bottom stoop, chin resting on the heel of his right hand, and waited.

...

He was in bed by the time Merle finally did arrive, and the argument between Ma and his brother woke him up. Daryl wrapped his pillow around his head and curled into the wall, fighting back the temptation to sneak out into the hallway and get his first glimpse of his brother in seven years.

Ma was hollering fiercely and Daryl didn't need to remove the pillow to hear what she said. It was always the same with Ma, and Daryl had learned how to predict what she would say and do before it happened. But that didn't make it any less hurtful, it didn't make every tantrum and fit of anger any less potent. Merle didn't know how to handle her but from the sounds of it he was holding up better than Uncle Kenny ever did.

Uncle Kenny usually smacked her good by this point. So did Pa.

Instead Merle laughed. A drunken, nearabout hysterical noise that croaked and hooted between amused swears of his own. They were rebuttals that eventually drove Ma to her room, the flimsy door slamming behind her. There wasn't silence like there was when Ma fought with the other men in her life, but the quiet chortling of Merle and the clink and hiss of a beer bottle being opened. Daryl let his pillow fall away from his head and stared up at the ceiling as he listened carefully. He could hear Ma crying and cursing through the thin wall that separated their bedrooms but could hear nothing more of Merle.

Daryl's imagination had gone into warp drive since he found out his brother was due home. As he lay in bed during those moments before sleep overtook him, he created a Merle that was just like John Wayne in _The Cowboys_. He was creeping out of bed before he realised it, slowly pushing his covers back and slipping down onto the threadbare carpet, cautious not to alert Ma to his wakeful state. Every breath he took sounded ten times louder to his ears than they actually were. Beneath his pajama top his heart pounded. The floor threatened to creak beneath him.

The bedroom door flew open, flooding the small room with light and freezing Daryl where he stood. The hulking, shadowed figure of Merle filled the doorway; tall and broad shouldered, he faltered just as the wide eyed Daryl had. The boy gulped, taking in the back-lit blond buzz cut and muscular arms shown off by a sleeveless denim work shirt. Merle swayed and staggered backward, catching himself on the door frame as he acknowledged Daryl and leered at him. He had the same blue eyes as the younger Dixon sibling, but they were small and deep-set in a strong, hard face a lot like their father's. Daryl felt small under Merle's gaze, like a baby rabbit catching sight of a hunting dog for the first time. Suddenly he wanted to be hidden beneath his bed sheets and not stood in front of his brother in his nightwear like a little sissy girl. As first meetings went he wished he could have a do-over. He felt stupid. Heat flamed in his cheeks and he ducked his eyes, fidgeting restlessly where he stood. He knew he should say something but couldn't think of anything clever.

Merle continued to do nothing more than stare at him, head cocked to one side, still swaying on his feet. His eyes were glassy with drink, his complexion ruddy, and his face quirked in an ambiguous expression that Daryl couldn't name. All he could think about was how big Merle was. In the shadowy light of the bedroom he could have almost been John Rambo, out for justice against Jimmy Tate and the other boys at school who picked on Daryl at every chance they got. They would be so jealous when they saw Merle and they'd never go near Daryl again, not if they had any sense. At this thought he offered his big brother a tentative smile, edging towards him on shuffling feet.

Merle licked his chapped lips and bared his teeth in a feral grin, looping his thumbs around the over-sized and ornate pewter belt buckle he wore. A low, growly chuckle rumbled through his chest, and as the light hit his pale eyes, Daryl saw something glinting in them that he couldn't name.

"Well now," Merle cleared his throat, stepping into the bedroom proper; his boots clomping loudly. "If it ain't my little brother..."

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><p>*<em>Riders on the Storm<em>, Doors.


	2. Trust I seek and I find in you

Sorry for the ridiculous delay, it wasn't intentional but real life got in the way.  
>Big big thanks goes to JoanieNobody, ErisandDysnomia, LucyFreebird, Barcadivodka, RejectedShyRebel18, EspeonAngel, kim-de-lee, reedus fan, RhapsodicOracle, Kyubi9, SmileSusieQ, veiledndarkness and anonymous for the reviewsfavourites/alerts.

As always, I don't own _The Walking Dead_.  
>I'm not entirely confident about this chapter, it sort of got away from me both in length and content. Hopefully its a decent read if nothing else, feedback would be appreciated - at least then I'll know if I'm doing it wrong :) Thanks!<p>

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><p><strong>Wayward Sons<strong>

[2.0/_Trust I seek and I find in you.*_]

1986

The flesh around his eye was beginning to swell and the hooded lid drooped down as if gravity was pulling it shut. He probed the injury with an indelicate index finger, hissing as he jabbed and stretched the skin, studying the spread of the ugly red bruising that was already showing signs of turning a darker colour. It looked worse under the harsh lighting of the family bathroom and it seemed his assailant's victorious gloating hadn't been unfounded after all. A badge of dishonour, a symbol of weakness. It was a gross and bloated - if temporary - disfigurement and he wouldn't be able to hide it from Ma.

The mere thought of her reaction caused Daryl to press the wet cloth firmly against his eye socket and pray that the swelling would go down even just a little bit before she got home. He would melt beneath the intensity of her interrogation and the inevitable parental confrontation would only make matters worse for him come Monday morning. He searched through the medicine cabinet for something to fix his eye, fishing out an almost empty tube of arnica lotion from amidst the vast collection of ointments, pills and creams. Daryl dabbed it on liberally, the arnica cooling his tender skin and stinging as it seeped into his pores. He waited and watched but saw no change take place during those few desperately impatient minutes in front of the mirror, defeated by the reality that there wouldn't be any distraction capable of concealing it as he had so hoped.

He left the bathroom in a state of disarray, the mess no longer mattering to him now that his fate was sealed. Shoulders slumped and feet dragging, Daryl by-passed his bedroom and the homework waiting within, preferring instead to take comfort in the cookies he wasn't supposed to eat and what was left of the soda he'd bought on the way home from school. The trailer was silent and untidy again. There were magazines and used coffee mugs everywhere, overflowing ashtrays squatting where there was space between empty bottles and crushed beer cans. Ma had been grocery shopping during her lunch break but had forgotten to put it away, the paper bag splitting down one side; canned vegetables and a box of macaroni threatening to spill out onto the counter. He briefly thought about tidying them away for her and earning himself some brownie points before the impending shitstorm, but in the end decided against it. His ears may have stopped ringing but his head still hurt, and Daryl wasn't in the mood to do anything more than what he had to. Homework and diplomatic relations be damned.

From the window above the sink he could see Merle hunched beneath the open hood of his truck. It was a navy and cream Ford, five years older than Daryl with mismatched tires and an engine that sounded like a strangled cat whenever the ignition was turned over. A fine layer of dirt darkened the paintwork and bronze rust decorated the wheel arches and grille. For all his crowing about getting a new ride for a too-good-to-be-true deal, Merle had certainly left out the fact that the truck deserved to be wrecked, not driven. The doors and side panels were pockmarked with dents, the passenger side wing mirror had been smashed, and dead nettles and leaves were tangled in the windshield wipers. The Ford had been sat in a forgotton corner of Clay Benton's farmyard long enough for the tires to sink and Mother Nature to have her way with it. The exhaust pipe was dangling dangerously close to the ground and the stuffing of the seats had been burrowed into and torn to shreds by vermin. Brackish water pooled in the back, and when the truck arrived at their home - towed because the brakes were bad and the timing belt on the verge of rupturing - there had been a putrefying skunk curled up in a corner of the bed. A whole bunch of new parts were needed that Daryl had no clue about but Ma had moaned would cost a fortune.

"_Just like ya damned father_," she had said, "_always looking out for a free meal and costin' me twice as much when it all goes to hell_."

Daryl hadn't understood what she meant but from the thunderous expression that strained Merle's jaw and narrowed his steel eyes, he certainly did. The statement had hung between all of them for days like a bad stink that they could have done without. Merle wouldn't talk to Ma and Ma wouldn't talk to Merle, both of them as stubborn and insensitive as the other. Daryl had watched the contempt fester - ignorant of it's origins but well aware that it had been born before him - only to dissipate all of a sudden for no reason he could fathom.

He would later learn that it was just the Dixon way.

He peeked out from behind the limp net curtain hung over the bottom half of the window, getting a better look at what Merle was doing. There was an untouched six pack of beer sat beside the right front wheel and another six that had already been finished were scattered in the tufty grass around him. He had stripped down to his sleeveless under shirt, his bare arms smeared with grease and oil and sweat. Whatever he was doing it looked complicated and Daryl wondered if he needed help. He crossed to the front door but hesitated as he reached for the handle. Merle wasn't the Merle that Daryl had expected after all those years. This Merle was unknown, an unpredictable entity that kept him on his toes and contradicted enough of what Ma said to make the boy doubt what she remembered. Even so, he couldn't resist temptation, and his brother was the most tempting thing he had ever known.

The door yielded with a groan and Daryl squinted as he stepped out into the lambent sunlight, bruised eye throbbing harder. Merle took no notice of him, head still bowed, shoulders rising and falling as he tinkered with the dusty engine. Daryl hopped down the porch steps and rounded the back of the truck; counting the dents and leering at the high sides of the bed, wondering if Merle had gotten rid of the skunk yet. Driven by morbid curiosity he climbed up a tyre, the rubber sinking beneath his weight, and leant over the metal siding to look. The water was still there, rusting the grooves in the floor and turning curled oak leaves to mush. The skunk was gone but snatches of black fur and the fading smell of decomposition remained, the stench tickling his nose. There was a brief flicker of disappointment in his gut. He had hoped to be there when Merle disposed of the critter and he wondered what his brother had done with it.

"Whut you got yer nose in, boy?"

Merle's gruff voice rumbled from beneath the hood, and like a panicked deer Daryl flinched, eyes widening. "Nuthin'."

There was a grunt. "Then come 'ere."

He jumped down and warily slunk towards the front of the truck, hands in his pockets and head dipped. Daryl didn't want Merle to see his black eye, he didn't want to admit what had happened and look even more like a baby in front of his brother than he already did. Merle barely looked at him, instead concentrating on what he was doing, leaving Daryl to watch; creeping up onto his tip toes when Merle's muscular shoulder blocked his view.

"Whut're you doin'?" He eventually asked.

With the back of his hand Merle wiped at the sweat building on his top lip, his blue gaze coolly flicking over to his brother. "There's an air leak and as far as I can tell it ain't comin' from the carb. So the bearin's need replacin' and the sleeve likely needs pinchin' too. You know anythin' about that? Has Pa taught ya?"

"No," Daryl said with a shrug. "He ain't been 'round much."

"Figures." Merle spat in reply. "Why're you hidin' yer face like that, huh? Look at me properly when you talk. Ain't Ma teachin' you any manners?"

Daryl swallowed thickly and raised his head, face pinched in a weary grimace that made his eye look even fatter. There was no way Merle could miss it and Daryl cowered, cheeks flushing red with embarrassment when his brother let out a low, impressed whistle followed by a hoot of laughter; catching Daryl's chin in a rough grasp, tilting his head backwards so he could get a better look. Merle's amusement only made Daryl feel worse.

"Shit, ain't that a beauty! I hope you gave as good as you got."

Daryl squirmed but said nothing."Well? Didja?"

It was an explosion, a volcanic eruption that Daryl Dixon didn't have the strength to keep buried inside himself anymore.

"I- I never got a chance, Merle! Billy came outta nowhere and cornered me and he's twice my size and really strong and I didn't get a chance to react or nuthin'! I mean I can fight and all, I'm really good normally. Uncle Kenny says I got a mean right hook and one day I could box if I really wanted to! But Billy's thirteen and real big for his age, and he had all his friends with him and I had no one; and I would've run after him but my head was hurtin' bad and Mrs Dooley saw and I -"

Merle interrupted Daryl's frenzied and apologetic babbling, patting his shoulder hard enough for the boy to sway under the strength of his hand.

"Hey, hey. Stop yer damn squawkin'. If you din't get him this time you'll just have to get him twice as bad next time."

"I'm not a pussy, Merle. I'm _not,_ I swear!"

The ardency of Daryl's tone halted Merle, who had been moving to lean back over the engine he was in the process of tearing out. The ex-Marine regarded his younger sibling in stony silence, seeing something in the skinny runt that he hadn't noticed before then. Daryl looked more like Ma - fragile and almost sickly - but deep down he was his father's son, just like Merle, and any doubts Merle had harboured about Daryl's paternity were dashed when he saw the same defiance in the stormy eyes of the boy before him that burned in his father's and his own. Traits like that weren't learned, and not just because Rueben Dixon was never out of prison long enough to teach them. Every Dixon male that Merle knew had that look when things weren't right. He was surely positive that they came out of the womb wearing it.

"I know you ain't, yer a Dixon. Dixon's ain't pussies no matter whut folk say. You best remember that."

There was a beat of silence as Daryl nodded mutely and kicked one of the beer bottles through the grass. He watched Merle go back to work from the corner of his eye, hopeful of an invitation to help.

"Has Ma seen that yet?"

Daryl grimaced, a hand subconsciously rising up to touch the inflamed skin of his cheekbone. "No."

"Ooh boy, I _do not_ want to be you when she does!"

Neither did Daryl.

"It's not fair. It weren't even my fault. I didn't do nuthin' to Billy this time."

"Shit happens, brother. Ain't nuthin' you can do about it."

"She won't understand. She never listens to me." Daryl moaned, kicking the bottle again.

"That's 'cause yer ten and she's a woman. Women don't understand men's business, they don't have the thinking for it. That's why we're the ones that go to war and they ain't."

Daryl frowned. "Ma's not stupid, she just don't listen."

"Same damn thing," Merle grunted again, grabbing another beer and popping the cap off. He took a long drink, the brown glass sweating in the muggy afternoon heat. When he was finished he pointed at Daryl and fixed him with a stern look.

"All I can tell you is that they're all the same. They're self-absorbed and money-hungry and lazy. You won't find one different and Ma certainly ain't, that's for sure. All they care about is fancy things and bein' better than their friends, and they'll make you work yer ass to the bone to get whut they want. Just remember that no matter whut Ma says, yer a man and that means you gotta take care of business how you see fit. She won't agree and she'll give you hell for that shiner but that don't mean she's right. Don't ever let anyone woman tell you whut to do, never in yer life - d'you hear me?"

There was a look in Merle's eyes that his little brother didn't understand, but Daryl said nothing about it. He agreed wordlessly to what Merle said and squatted down on the porch steps, observing quietly as the tension that had overtaken Merle dissipated and he returned to work whistling between his teeth. Thunder rolled in distant skies and Daryl watched iron clouds head slowly in their direction. The summer vacation wasn't far off, three months of no math, no dodgeball, no spelling tests and no schoolyard battles to deal with. Three months in which he could spend all his time with Merle. He counted down the days on his fingers, scraping at the black dirt embedded beneath short, bitten down nails.

Ma was due home soon and he wasn't looking forward to it. The woodland looked inviting. He could play in there for hours, lost amongst the thick brush where no one would bother looking for him. The river would be cool, a relief to the premature humidity of the season and if he found himself an empty jar he could catch late spawning tadpoles and keep them in his room. Ma would hate him for that too but he found it hard to care. There were a lot of things that Ma hated but Daryl liked and he was fed up of getting an earful everytime he tried to have fun.

"That's not wise, boy. You best be here when she gets home, runnin' off won't save you none."

Merle's deep voiced advice shook Daryl out of his reverie and he realised he was creeping off towards the woods; moving on instinct away from the conflict he anticipated for that evening. He halted and turned to his brother, observing as Merle wiped a wrench clean on his jeans and stared at him solemnly, eventually gesturing with his head for Daryl to join him.

"Come and make yerself useful, would ya? Maybe if yer lucky I'll help you handle Ma, but first you gotta pass me that wrench..."

...

"How could you do this to me, Daryl? How am I supposed to take you to Church on Sunday lookin' as if you've done three rounds with Satan hisself? Jesus Christ, why can't you just stay out of trouble? Is it too much to ask? Well, is it?"

The moment Ma barrelled through the front door, it began. She had taken one look at his bruised face and started ranting, banging saucepans around as she made a martyrs attempt at dinner whilst dealing with him at the same time. He sat at the table unable to look her in the eye, hunched over and silent; not bothering to answer because she didn't stop talking long enough for him to open his mouth. She was in a foul mood already after a bad day at the laundrette, proven by the way she chain-smoked the last of her packs of Pall Malls and fumbled with the matches each time she needed a light.

"You know, Mrs Dooley told me she'd seen you brawlin' this afternoon and I had the stupidity to defend you from the woman. Do you realise how foolish I look now? When I see her next I'll have to apologise, and God help you if I see her on Sunday because the last place I want to be apologisin' to _that_ woman is at Church in front of her all busybody friends!"

Ma collapsed down into the chair opposite his, stubbing out her finished cigarette; grinding away the ash until the filter fell apart between her fingers. She pulled out the last cigarette but couldn't get it lit, instead throwing the match box across the kitchenette in anger when things wouldn't work her way. It bounced off the refrigerator, the remaining contents spilling out onto the dirty floor. The cigarette was stuffed none too carefully back into its carton. Ma sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her sagging chest.

"Who were you pickin' on after school today?"

"No one," He muttered with a belligerent shrug. _It weren't me that started it_.

She narrowed her eyes, shaking her head in disappointment.

"I woulda thought you'd know better than to lie to me, Daryl Dixon," She sighed sadly. "But maybe I was wrong about you, maybe you're just like your poor excuse for a father after all!"

He bit his tongue and stared at a crack in the linoleum, concentrating on the jagged edges and shallow scratches; noticing sock fluff and black dirt stuck in them as well as the insulated trailer floor that peeked up from below. The words hurt, stung him harder than any wasp could. He blinked back tears he was desperate not to acknowledge and forced himself not to pout and let her see how he felt. A part of him desperately wanted to tell her the truth; that she was one of the reasons kids picked on him at school, that Pa was another and that he only got into fights because he wanted to stand up to kids like Billy Doss and Jimmy Tate just like she told him to. Ma would cry if she knew that, he didn't want to make her cry so it was easier to just let her be angry, and maybe later when he was in bed, cry and be angry himself.

"Why don't you just leave the boy alone. It ain't none of Dooley's damn business how he got that black eye, and it sure as hell ain't nuthin' for you to get tied up over."

A roar of applause crackled through the television in response to Merle's slurred proclamation. He was sat in an armchair, laid over it in a nonchalant slump; a bottle of beer in one hand and the TV remote in the other. It was the first time he had said anything since Ma walked through the door, and he did so without looking away from the fuzzy screen; without stopping his constant search through the channels for something entertaining to watch.

Ma's head snapped up. "What did you say to me?"

Merle turned his head just enough to look at her. "You heard. Stop hollerin' and git on with dinner."

She didn't take kindly to that. Her face slowly turned an ugly shade of puce and her lips went white from how tightly she clamped them together. The chair she sat on screeched over the linoleum as she rose, hands in fists.

"Last time I checked I weren't talkin' to you," She spat. "This is between me and Daryl, you drunken prick, so why don't you shut _your_ trap and get outta here!"

Merle muttered inaudibly beneath his breath, stood up also and slapped the remote down onto the seat of the chair he had been sitting in. He advanced on her, at least a foot taller, glaring down at Ma with his top lip curled in a sneer. Ma had to crane her head to meet his gaze, her chin almost hitting his chest they stood so close together.

"I ain't goin' nowhere and this is about me just as much as it is the kid. I was the one that gave him that black eye, so your uppity Mrs Dooley can suck my dick for all I care."

"But Mrs Dooley said-"

"She's mistaken. He came straight home from school and helped me with the rig. Ain't that right, little brother?"

The look Merle sent him told Daryl not to argue. He nodded mutely in response. Ma glared between them and pointed accusingly at Daryl's black eye.

"If that's so, how'd he get _that_, hmm?"

Merle's sneer twitched and for a moment Daryl thought she had caught them out. If she had, they were done for and the punishment would be twice as bad than it would have been before Merle stepped in. But his big brother schooled a look of lazy indifference onto his tanned face.

"Thought I'd teach him some wrestlin' moves and elbowed him in the eye," he shrugged. "I forget what a little chickenshit he is."

She was torn between believing him and being suspicious. It was all too easy, no matter how unrehearsed and credible it sounded, she knew her boys too well. Rueben Dixon was an incorrigible liar and shameless charmer, traits that she was sure had been passed on to his offspring just to make her life all the more difficult. But the defiant expression Merle wore, his loyalty to a little boy he barely knew, and the fact that for some unfathomable reason she loved him more than anything else on God's Earth meant that her resolve wavered; her anger crumbling. Merle wouldn't lie to her, not his mother.

"Is this true, Daryl?" Ma asked him, turning to him for the first time since her argument with Merle had started. She was wild-eyed and flushed, indignant and unsure.

"Yeah," He mumbled.

She retreated back into her chair with a shaky sigh, hiding her head in her hands for a long, unnerving amount of time. She was always bleaching her hair blonde, hiding the premature grey with unnatural colours that stemmed from her naive youth and her dreams of looking like a glamorous movie star. Daryl stared at the peppery grey and brown roots that sprouted from the crown of her skull, her hair thinning out with age and vice. She deflated like a beach ball, silent and contemplative, lost to her secret thoughts as she rubbed her eyes with her finger tips - smudging her mascara - and then proceeded to massage her forehead with the palms of her hands. Merle observed her with perverse fascination, waiting, like Daryl, to see what would come next.

Daryl hated how her moods changed, how she seemed to live on the edge of some kind of emotional tightrope - one that she never tried to stop herself falling off. The doctors wanted to fix it but Ma wouldn't let them.

She looked up at him then, eyes bloodshot, offering him a wobbly grimace. "Daryl, baby, will you light your mommy a cigarette, please?"

It wasn't really a question and he didn't take it as any thing less than an order. He jumped out of his chair, picking up the matches and hurriedly forcing them back into their box. He couldn't say he liked the taste of tobacco but he'd learnt to ignore it long enough to get the things lit and handed over. Balancing that last cigarette between his lips, he struggled to strike the match but finally got it to spark. It took all he had not to cough on the smoke that tickled his throat and he could feel Merle's eyes burning into him as he handed the cigarette over to Ma.

"Thank you, my baby." She took a long drag, eye closed and raised towards the ceiling, letting out a blissful sigh when she finally exhaled. "Gosh, I'm just bone weary tonight. What a day..."

She reached for him, clawing at the empty air between them with long, bony fingers and a desperate, pleading stare. She wanted to hold him, and he'd let her. He'd let her hold him so tightly that he couldn't breathe and spend however long she needed him like that, suffocating on her heavy perfume, until she was acting normal again. Reluctantly, Daryl moved towards her, noticing Merle slink back to his armchair without another word. Her perfume smelled as bad as always and he was growing too tall to embrace her how she liked; yet as uncomfortable as it was he didn't try to pull away. Suddenly she began to sob, her head buried in the side of his neck. She tickled his collar bone with her ragged breathing and whether meaning to or not, sunk her nails into the tender flesh of his back. Daryl winced and glanced over his shoulder. Merle shifted uneasily in his chair looking ready to bolt out the door and into the night.

Did Merle even know this side of Ma? Or had she been different back before their sister died? Daryl couldn't remember, he had been too young.

"I'm sorry, Daryl. I'm so sorry."

He wasn't entirely sure he knew what she was apologising for. With Ma, there was always so many things. But at least now he had Merle and if things got bad again then he could protect them.

Maybe, he could even make Ma get better. _'Cause isn't that what big brothers do?_

* * *

><p>* <em>Nothing Else Matters<em>, Metallica.


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